


Long Night

by Dreadmartha



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:39:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreadmartha/pseuds/Dreadmartha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet moment inside PI's head. This is neither canon PI and DD, nor Mobsterswitched. It's really just a study of PI.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Night

It’s cold in your apartment, particularly on the wood floor, where articles of clothing belonging to yourself lay. You imagine that it is less cold in the seat of the chair where your guest’s clothes are folded. Because some residue of his body warmth must still be radiating there, just the way it radiates across the freezing divide between you two in the bed.

He is the only thing in your apartment with a heat signature. Even under the covers, curled up as you are, your body gives off nothing that could raise the temperature in the air around you more than half a degree. You guest, on the other hand, has blood which is thick and healthy and so red that it doesn’t stop at just keeping him warm. It beats through him, sending a few inches of heat out of his body to you.

You thank him, quietly so as not to wake him.

Out of courtesy to him, you haven’t wrapped yourself around him the way you’d like to. He isn’t a fan of physicality, be it aggressive or romantic or platonic or even accidental. Having him in your bed with his clothing removed and you beside him is a privilege, and you don’t want to chance losing it.

You’re very good at losing things, you do it effortlessly and quickly. This, your relationship with your guest that lets you both be in a bed together in the middle of the night, is the one thing that you’ve wanted to keep and have found a way to maintain. You’ve done it by doing what you’re doing right now, laying awake and watching his back, shivering as gently as you can manage, listing all of the things you mustn’t do.

Cuddling, talking about work, commenting on his smoking habit, touching him almost at all, offering cream and sugar on the odd occasion that you two have tea together.

Your more persistent habits of stuttering, stumbling, spacing out, fussing, mumbling, murmuring, hiccupping when you’re particularly nervy are not as easy to avoid. They irk him, quite a bit. You’ve tried unsuccessfully to get a handle on these tendencies. He’s politely bared your attempts.

He breathes deep and slow, his sides swelling evenly in the gloom of your little apartment. The sheet cuts off your view in the middle of his abdomen. He must not feel the cold. He lies on his side, one arm folded under his head, the other bent with its fist lying just under his chin. He sleeps the way you imagine a captain would in a muddy trench, in the hull of some ship rocking on the ocean. Deep asleep, waiting for something loud and bloody to wake him up. Dreamless, a sleep that is only for resting the body and mind. Death, but still breathing.

You can see three vertebras push against the skin on the back of his neck where it stretches to meet his shoulders. He doesn’t forget to eat, the way you do. He’s the ideal weight for a man of his height and habits. Heavier than you could hope to lift, that’s for sure.

The wind picks up outside and the building creaks and groans, the cold air rushing in as if there was no wall separating you and the outside. You can’t help shuddering hard. You’ve curled yourself up so tight already that you’ve gone so far as to interlock your toes in an effort to keep warm.

You feel goosebumps rise on your skin. He, on the other hand, doesn’t notice anything.

The wind howls outside, and your guest is absolutely unmoved.

The few inches of warmth he gives off feel hotter, in fact.

You shiver again, now fighting to not break your own rules and cling to him.

Under the covers, your skin is ice, your bones ache with the tiniest move. You know without looking that your fingernails and toenails have turned purple, that your face has lost whatever color it can ever claim, your mouth is a grim line as you fight to keep your jaws closed tight to stop your teeth from chattering.

You keep staring at his back, knowing he is perfectly immune to cold. Immune to more than that. Immune to ridicule, remorse, fear, pain, bullets, lung and throat cancer. He’s tough, thick skinned. Sharkskin. Things glide off of him, he is impenetrable, unbreakable.

You swallow hard, feeling your knees and elbow creak as you brave the block of ice that is the swath of mattress usually occupied by your legs. You squirm into the few inches of warmth, only to feel them freeze under you. A tiny, pathetic noise escapes you and you lie perfectly still, hoping you haven’t woken him. He doesn’t stir.

You inch closer, your arms crossed over your chest like those of a glided, dead pharaoh. You feel nothing until your face brushes the back of his shoulder. You squeak softly, surprised to feel warm again. You can’t resist pressing the rest of yourself up against him, your arms still folded over your chest. He _is_ warm. Your jaws relax, your thin blood pumping easier as heat presses into your skin. You push your cheek against his shoulder, turning your face into the mattress. You sigh, suddenly aware that you’ve been up all night.

Your eyes close.


End file.
